


Flee for Your Lives (or Hearts)

by angelsandbrowncoats



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just angst, M/M, actually this is just me delving into ed's obvious emotional pain, ed does a poor job of sorting out his feelings, ed needs a hug and a fuzzy blanket, extremely brief reference to non-con that does not actually occur, i will never stop saying that, idk if this really counts as mature there's no smut or anything, nygmobblepain, set during 3x19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandbrowncoats/pseuds/angelsandbrowncoats
Summary: "I hope you're happy.""Did the guards club you?""You know they did.""Then I'm happy."Sometimes Ed wishes he'd never felt Oswald's friendship in the first place, because then their war might not hurt so much. But he did, and it does.





	Flee for Your Lives (or Hearts)

**Author's Note:**

> There was such a great opportunity for angst in 3x19. Most of this was written the Tuesday after, but I got distracted and only recently finished it. I think when I started I considered making a nice fix-it ending for them, but sometimes you just need the angst. Ed's made a lot of mistakes recently and I can't say I'm disappointed with the finale, but sometimes I really wish someone would just give that boy a hug. 
> 
> Enjoy~

They locked eyes for a split second before their gazes were forcefully altered, one via fainting, the other from pain. Still, it was long enough for Ed to see the gleam in Oswald's eyes, the slight smirk growing under his own convulsions. Oswald had called the guards on him, knowing what would happen, and he had forced himself awake long enough to _watch_. That hurt more than any amount of beating these ruffians could ever hope to dish out to him.

He curled in further on himself, trying desperately to protect his organs and more tender flesh. Much of his back, arms, and legs were scarred enough to negate some of the pain. The only real concern was his neck, the irony of which served to shatter his mental barriers. Memories flooded together, and he blacked out temporarily as he lost himself to them.

_He took up a similar position, only he could curl up better, hide easier, since his limbs had yet to become as long and lanky as they were now._

_A voice, screaming curses at him as he cowered in the dark of the unused cellar, frozen in place as a spider crawled across his hand. He didn't brush it away; it was company._

_Cruel, cruel laughter that never ended. It began with a higher pitch, accompanying scraped knees and bruised shoulders and ruined possessions. It grew deeper and now it meant thieves and embarrassment and punches to the gut. Deeper still and it was pitying, patronizing, less physical, but a mockery of his very soul._

_His own hands shaking, pulsing with blood from that desperate adrenaline as he begged and pleaded and tried to reason only to morph into that which he feared most, her fragile body a shade of the one he had tried religiously to forget._

_The memory of that death re-emerging, of peering out from behind heavy drapes, smart enough to know why she wasn't moving, why he was grumbling as he shoved her slight form in a garbage bag and disappeared for the next four hours. She had been Ed's mother, in actions if not in body, for the three years she'd been with them. She was neither the first nor the last to leave their house by such violent means, but she was the only one who ever earned that designation._

_Now it was the insults that came so naturally to Gotham's cops; now it was Arkham; now it was the humiliation of realizing he'd been betrayed-_

_Then the least welcome of them all, for it provided a trap that he could not walk away from. No, not the Court - the memory of sitting on Oswald's couch, the feeling of warm security enveloping his entire being. Of Oswald saving him, caring for him, protecting him. He held the memory tightly, trying to bind it to him, but, as he knew it would, the memory transformed. The care (the love) in Oswald's eyes leaking out through blood and river water, his expression turning first cold and blank, but that was quickly replaced with a sneer, his laughter joining the others as he stood over Ed. It was he who struck Ed, even if it was through these worthless buffoons. He made it happen, he wanted it to happen._

_"Now the defender attacks the one he's been supposed to protect."_

_It was Oswald, his best friend, the man who had once offered his own life for Ed's, who was beating him now, in a way he could never know was so familiar to the man._

When he came back to himself, the guards were no longer striking him. He was being dragged upwards roughly - one last blow to his stomach catching him off guard - and shoved unceremoniously back into the cage. His glasses had been knocked askew and one of the nose-pieces was pressed painfully against his left eye. Distracted by trying to amend this, he jolted at the feeling of a hand on him. _They couldn't be -_

His mind calmed slightly as he realized that it was a pat-down, not a molestation, which he had heard often occurred in situations like this. And then they reached his pocket and the anger began to roll in. He probably should have expected this (why else would they pat him down?) but he still felt outraged as his lock picks were retrieved from the pocket where he had shoved them. This, too, he knew, was Oswald's doing. Somehow.

Finally he was left alone - a state he loved and despised - and the door of the cage swung shut and was re-locked. All he had left was the paper, so he read. Nothing particularly interesting seemed to be happening. With both him and Oswald trapped in these gigantic birdcages, there was a distinct lack of fascinating crime in Gotham.

A groan to his right alerted him to the fact that Oswald was waking. What did he even feel towards Oswald anymore?

He felt anger at himself - he'd been here far longer than Oswald and yet the Penguin _still_ managed to have everything under control, even when he was seconds away from death. He'd thought he was ready, that he was the Penguin's equal as the Riddler. Clearly not.

That anger, however, had been easily channeled into anger at Oswald. In addition, there was a dread as to what else this enviously cruel man might have in store for him, a deep sadness for the friend he had lost, a terrible relief that he had only lost the part of him that was his friend and not the rest, and something else that he really didn't want to think about right now (or ever).

Anger seemed like the easiest, safest emotion to express. So he did.

"MY. LOCK. PICK. WAS. CONFISCATED!" he emphasized each word with a bat of the newspaper against the bars, watching carefully as Oswald picked himself up, massaged his bad knee slightly, and then proceeded to glare at him. Or did this even count as a glare for Oswald? It was painfully reminiscent of the looks he'd sent Ed's way back when he'd been staying in Ed's apartment. Whatever those had meant.

Deciding to continue with their attitudes from earlier, he crossed his arms and huffed, "Now we're both stuck in this unnaturally damp hellhole. I hope you're happy."

And if his heart clenched just a little in anticipatory fear of Oswald's next words, at least the action was justified.

"Did the guards club you?"

So he'd been right. His throat grew tight and he glanced away. He couldn't let on to Oswald how much he'd been hurt, but it wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that he'd lost everything and everyone. At least with Kristen he knew it was only his own mind tormenting him. To have to look into the _real_ eyes of his very-not-dead former best friend and see the sadistic glee and hatred was more than he could bear. Why did everyone else get to have friends? Love? Why not him? Why _never_ him?

_Because you're worthless._

_Disgusting._

_A mistake._

_Should have been killed at birth._

_Unwanted._

_Creepy._

_A freak._

The words echoed in his mind. Only one man had said _all_ of them, but who _hadn't_ said at least one to him? Or, if they were polite, they'd spoken them behind his back, pretending they didn't know he could still hear them.

At least, he told himself, Oswald didn't have anyone either. It would just be too much if Oswald got to have someone when he didn't. At least this way he could still pretend to come out on top. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't give up. And he _certainly_ wouldn't cry.

Because if this was what Oswald did to his more confident counterpart, how much worse could he be once he realized he'd struck a weak spot?

No. No weakness. Ed would never survive if he allowed Oswald to dig this barb in any further. He might not even want to.

"You know they did."

"Then I'm happy."

Ed swallowed again, forcing himself back into the Riddler, where he was cool and calm and collected. Where he was safe. He wouldn't let on just how far his armor had cracked. If there was one thing he could do, it was act, pretend like he was okay. He'd done it for years. His whole life, really, until Oswald had entered it. He could do it again. He had to.

He closed his eyes, mentally chanting the words of advice he'd given Penguin all that time ago.

_Love is weakness. Love is weakness. Love is weakness. Love is weakness._

Maybe if he said it enough times, he'd manage to believe it.

For now, he'd push it all away. There would be time to hurt later. For now, his number one priority was escaping, even if it meant subjecting himself to the torturous pleasure of working at Oswald's side once more.

Watching Oswald in his element, Ed couldn't deny he was just as breathtaking as ever, and as they strutted out of their prison, side by side, he could almost pretend they were still friends. Better than friends, even.

Almost.

But not quite.


End file.
